Ah, Canada comes to the rescue
Growing up, my dad used to drink a lot of whisky. Not so much it made me feel anxious – and he certainly never got more than nicely tipsy – but enough I could smell it on him. Enough that the house was filled with this strangely alluring scent every single evening. I’d come out of my room and smell it, and I suppose now I do associate the smell of whisky with dad.
I, myself, don’t like to drink. I don’t know why that is: in theory I should love my drink. But that’s not to say that every now and again I don’t dabble. And recently it happened that my dad and I had some whisky together. Like two old boys we were, drinking out on the porch together, having a right old good time.
whenever he has a Fireball in him he sleeps like a log an snores like the devil
This last time was an even more special occasion that normal, as it happens. The reason for that? Well, that’s easy. Dad had him some fireball whisky (33%) and he wanted to share it with his son; wanted to bond with me and sit about and talk like old timers. I couldn’t turn that down, and I guess that deep down it is possible I am developing my dad’s love of whisky in a similar way (and, strangely enough, at a similar time in life to when he developed a love for the stuff). I really don’t mind that. In fact, it’d probably feel like carrying on some ancient important tradition.
Made with Canadian whisky – the good stuff, my dad says – and with naturally lovable cinnamon flavours, this stuff is beautiful and the cinnamon is anything but for show. In fact, it feels like a vital part of the recipe. Now, I doubt I could drink any other kind of whisky and enjoy it as much as this stuff. It would seem that dad has got me hooked.
The future? Will I start drinking more of this stuff? It’s quite possible, and you know what, I really wouldn’t mind. It hasn’t done dad any harm in all the years he’s been around, and one thing is for sure: whenever he has a Fireball in him he sleeps like a log an snores like the devil (and that isn’t an exaggeration. All he is missing are the horns on his head…man, as much as I love my dad and would do anything for him, I wouldn’t want to be in my mum’s shoes living in that house!).
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